The photo that changed me: learning to love the skin I’m in

I stood in front of the camera and fully embraced the intensity of the flashes as the photographer instructed me to move softly so she could capture as much of my skin as possible. It was January 2020 and I still couldn’t believe I’d travelled to Amsterdam from London for a photography project focused entirely on vitiligo, with the photographer Elisabeth van Aalderen. For me, this was a profound moment of liberation and acceptance because 10 years prior, my skin was a closely guarded secret. I was embarrassed and ashamed to admit that my skin made me different. 

I’d always had a very troubled relationship with my body. I’ve lived with vitiligo – a skin condition where white patches form due to a lack of melanin – since I was three years old, and have never known a life without it. As a child, I didn’t understand that I was different because my innocence led me to believe that people were just people. I didn’t understand that visible differences were such a thing and that they were perceived negatively.

My teenage years were the hardest, especially when I started secondary school. Having to make friends whilst being hyper-sensitive to the fact I was different made me self-conscious and my confidence was very low. It severely impacted my ability to take part in everyday school activities, such as swimming and PE lessons, because I was uncomfortable with exposing my skin. And summer was a season that I dreaded because I couldn’t wear summer clothes like all my friends. Every year they would ask me why I wasn’t wearing shorts to stay cool and I’d lie and say I didn’t want to today – when the real reason was insecurity and not looking the same as them.

I avoided any questions targeted at my skin because I didn’t know how to answer them. “What’s that on your skin?” or “Were you born with it?” were the most common, followed by the more intrusive ones like, “Were you burnt in a fire?” or “Is it contagious?” I would turn bright red with each question, making me hate my skin even more. For many years, I did my best to disguise it, relying heavily on thick camouflage makeup and fake tan, and whilst this often did the trick, mentally, living with a highly visible skin condition was exhausting.

My adult years were just as difficult, especially when it came to dating because the thought of someone falling in love with someone with vitiligo felt impossible. I often asked myself why would anyone be attracted to someone with a skin condition like mine. Things became easier when I discovered social media and started to connect with others like me. Finding people who understood the challenges and the many difficult moments, made me realise that I wasn’t alone.

I recall it being particularly cold when I landed at Schiphol airport. I was eager to head straight to the studio, not just to escape the chill but because I was feeling a mixture of excitement and anxiety about what was ahead of me. The studio itself, down a quiet road in Javastraat, was minimal but warm with the usual whitewashed walls and large windows that allowed plenty of natural light to flood the space.

I instantly felt connected to why I was there when I spotted the photographer’s mood board, which displayed the vision of the entire project. A mixture of close-up and long shots of parts of the body, captured from different angles and exuding femininity. Each image had the same purpose: to showcase the beauty of skin that had been impacted by vitiligo. I could sense this was going to be a powerful storytelling moment.

This wasn’t the first photoshoot I’d been part of where my skin was the subject. In fact, I’d taken part in many before, but there was something about this one that felt different. That feeling of raw, untouched and unfiltered photos, where each shot would intently focus on my skin. The skin I once resented had become somewhat of a fascination in recent years, with photographers keen to capture it in a way that would highlight its unique beauty.

The concept of the shoot meant I had to wear minimal clothing – stylish but athletic underwear in nude tones. The transition from spending the majority of my life hiding my skin, not wanting it to be seen, to now wearing very little in a public space, made me feel anxious.

For a brief moment I even questioned if I was doing the right thing. What happens if the images end up in the press? What will my colleagues say if they stumble across them? And hardest of all, how will I feel if I’m trolled online? Even with those thoughts swirling intensely, I didn’t back out because I knew this was a moment for me to step into something greater. This wasn’t about vanity. It was about empowering myself and others and showing that there is strength in vulnerability.

For the shoot, my hair and makeup were kept very natural to allow the photographer’s vision to shine through. Soft, curly tendrils framed my face, with very light foundation, blusher and nude lips subtly enhancing my features. When it was time to step in front of the camera, I heard the words “You can do this” echoing in my mind. And after a brief moment with my thoughts, I made my way onto the set and went into character, as the clicks of the camera went off at speed.

When the final images appeared in my inbox, I felt a mix of excitement and anxiety as I anticipated what they might look like. What if I didn’t like them? What if the version of my skin I was about to see didn’t match the empowering feeling I’d experienced on the day?

I clicked open the first image and studied it in detail. My arms softly raised above my head, my incredible cheekbones, the posture of a ballerina and the formation of the patches on my arms made me realise that something had changed. I wasn’t picking myself apart like I used to. I wasn’t looking at my skin with a feeling of insecurity or disgust. Instead, I saw a strong woman who was unapologetically being herself and had the ability to inspire others with her braveness. I felt so proud because I was finally seeing beauty in what I used to hide. Not edited or covered but someone who knew she was more than enough.